


Less Than Lovers

by lilacsigil



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Other, Psychic Bond, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-30
Updated: 2006-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/94893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacsigil/pseuds/lilacsigil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was the first fic I shared online - indeed, in any forum. It was written as a response to the Jean/Remy fic "More Than Friends" by Laersyn. I can't find a copy of that story online since Subreality went down. In any case, Laersyn did give me permission to write this, and to use bits of his dialogue. Although this fic is a commentary, it stands alone, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Than Lovers

I love her, but she pisses me off. What am I supposed to say to her: you're beautiful, don't show anyone else? You're sexy, I want to hold your pale breasts in my tanned hands and kneel over you while we fuck- make love? I want to flick your secret red hair with my tongue, tease you until you demand everything from me? And don't think about anyone else, Jean, don't think about anyone else, because I know when you do. Mindbonds are fun, that way.

Jean is in our bedroom, right now, undressing. She's throwing her everyday clothes into the wardrobe, cleaning up's hardly a romantic thing to do. She feels very romantic, right now, her nipples slowly crinkling into aroused points, feeling a premature shiver of pleasure between her legs when she sits on the bed. My side of the mindbond is quiet: she's absorbed in herself and her preparations, and not drawing anything from me. I'm sitting in front of the television, with my fists clenched, listening to every little silky, seductive noise that escapes our bedroom. It's supposed to be a surprise, what she's  
planned for our anniversary. She's bought herself lingerie, which she's unwrapping now, not quietly enough. She's going to make a gift of herself to me. I don't want her. My wife is gorgeous, lithe curves and long, flame-coloured hair that, in our line of work, is as luxurious as it is luxuriant. She's the most spectacularly beautiful woman there is. Sometimes I wish that were only a subjective opinion: everyone else looks at her, too. Most times we laugh, because we're sure of each other; we know no-one else could love either of us so well, so intimately. We both know the other's secret places, of the body and in the heart. She used to get angry, sometimes... who said it? Beautiful women and cripples get sick of being the object of everyone's gaze? That rarely happens now, except if she's feeling really down: with time has come the self-confidence to take the stares as homage, not objectification. Fearless leader alert! Re-evaluation of self-confidence rating, subject Phoenix! I could almost make myself laugh, if that wasn't one of her jokes.

I can hardly stand up as moral guardian of the universe, although I've been accused of it many times. That... thing with Elisabeth - I'm not sure what to call more-than-flirting-less-than-fling - was stupid. Momentarily gratifying, but really stupid. I, we, have to live for more than the present, ha, especially if we're Summers! No, I mean we've got time to build ourselves something more sustainable than a fuck under the Blackbird. We're not sixteen year olds, and there's a lot more to us than bodies. We need a lot more, and can give a lot more. I know that, Jean knows that, so why is she dressing for me and dreaming of bloody Remy? Weird acrobatic sex? Yet another strange Cajun mutant power that he only lets the women know about? A fetish for weird eyes too strong to be restricted to just one man? Bored stupid with being Mrs Summers, virtuous housewife? I'm not being fair; she doesn't even know she's thinking of him. Fuck "fair", I'm hers, why isn't she mine?

And aren't mindbonds fun, Scott? Why yes, Scott, I just love feeling my wife's subconscious cravings for another man; if I was really lucky, this would have happened before we really got to grips with the mindbond and I would have thought it was me lusting after Remy! Good thing I know better, or I could find myself in a very compromising situation; if I ever did, I'd want to know it was my desires being fulfilled and not hers. Nice speech, fearless leader. I'll just leave that for another day, shall I?

The slick rustlings have stopped. She's ready. And oh, I'm a lucky husband. She's conscious of the heat of her own body, and the intimate rubbing of the silk as she moves. In her fantasy she's grafted my face onto an acrobat's lanky body: it's the caresses, not the kisses, that burn against her beautiful creamy skin. She steps into the room, and from the very corner of my eye, behind the ruby-quartz glasses, I see the delicate black lace silhouetted against her glorious white skin, strong curves, fragile collarbones. She's so beautiful! Heat rushes to my groin, and I nearly, nearly forget resentment and anger.

But she's smiling, and the red-lipped longing is not for me. I could make love to her, touch her and possess her in the way I want... but thinking of that other body... the heat rushes back to my head, in anger, because I know I won't satisfy her, no matter how long, how hard, what I do. Tonight, for once, I'm not the man she wants, and I want her to want me in the way I need her.

"Do you want some coffee, Jean?"

Eyes front! I don't look away from the television.

The crystal patterns of perfect romance, with which she has surrounded tonight, waver for a moment, but no, she just thinks I haven't seen her.

"Scott, husband mine..." she breathes.

"Is that a yes or a no?" I'm surprised to hear that compassionless voice, but it is mine. I even turn my head slightly, as if I'm half-looking at her. The glasses hide the fact that I'm not. I can't. I feel like I'm choking on jealousy, stupidity, helplessness. Why doesn't she  
want me when all I want is her? Go away, Jean, go fuck Remy, if you want it so much, go use your beautiful body like a toy, and his, forget about your soul. I'm forgetting about mine, see?

And now I've broken the shining crystals of Jean's flawless night. With a small, wounded sound that makes me shiver at what I have so easily done, she runs from me, then from the house. She feels so betrayed that she's not even shielding, her emotions fly around me like her tears flee her eyes. Betrayal? All she feels is betrayal? Oh, what have I done, Jean, Jean, I was wrong, that traitor lust of yours wasn't real, it was as easily dissipated as your lovely surprise, oh Jean, I'm sorry, you only wanted- Remy. You're running straight to him. No need to make do with the regular dick after all. Not when there's a better one close by. And anyway, my erection's wilted completely, watching you curl into his arms and cry like a little girl.

That doesn't last long, of course. Remy's hands, to my eternal surprise, are doing nothing more than stroking her back, calming her, with as little sensuality in them as I've ever seen from him around any adult, female or male. Brave man, with Jean and her filmy black lingerie on his lap. She'll know if he reacts, especially as kindness is not what she wants from her fantasy man. Her anger at me has drained out of her, leaving dregs of vindictiveness and thwarted desire. Her face still buried in his chest - isn't he too skinny for you, Jean? - she slides from being a childish back under his gentle hands to a slender curve of spine under his caress. She makes herself a feline creature, and his eyes suddenly flicker into an equally feline awareness. His hands are no longer calming, but arousing. I can feel the small straight lines of heat his fingers leave on her skin. The silk catches slightly on the rough tips of his fingers - smoker, thief, card-sharp, thief, defiler - so that Jean's smooth skin is doubly teased by the pressure of the fingers and the slick silk. His movements still and they talk, briefly, but all she feels is the insistence of the ten little points of flame on her back, and the feel of his dick slowly hardening against her rounded hip.

He pulls away from her, and she shivers: is he rejecting her, too? She shakes her head, though, she knows her own beauty, she felt his hardness. She can have him, if she wants him, or me, or any other man. You know that, don't you, Jean. Remy is trying, strangely, to be fair to you and to me, but you are curled on his bed in black silk; when he stood, you fell back slightly, the negligee accidentally exposing one white shoulder, and almost all of one creamy white breast, as if the soft fabric caught on your hardened nipple. You move  
so slowly that even he might not consciously know it, but your legs are parting, and the secret places behind that thin black silk barrier are tilted towards him. He isn't even touching you, and you're opening to him. The game has already produced a slight wet bloom on the panties. Can Remy see it? Smell it?

"Are you just wanting to hurt Scott?"  
"No, because he will never know." She thinks this is true. She doesn't want to hurt me. She couldn't care less about me. She wants that lean, beautiful body on, in, hers; she wants to open herself to careless beauty, like a teenager, like there's nothing else in the world but that beauty. Remy is beautiful. I am not. I am the husband, figure of duty and adulthood, the source of release of tension and trust. I can be sexy, for her, but not beautiful, because I am not free. Nor do I want to be, nor does she. Until tonight. And to make him into that fantasy man in her head, she has to divest him of his ties to the real world, where people trust, and get hurt.

"But, de link...?"

"Oh Remy, don't you think I can control what he gets by now?"

She can, a little. She can keep me out of specific, closed groups of memories - herself and Logan, for example - and she can control verbal input. But she's not doing it now. In her fantasy world, I don't exist, consequences and hurt don't exist. She nearly has him.

"Remy, please? I just want one night of unbridled passion. Here, now, with you."

She has him. He's looked at her, at the delicate flush in her cheeks and across the tops of her breasts that warns of a far less than delicate arousal. He's still protesting, but it's his fantasy too, now, and he's playing hero. If he really meant it, he'd turn away, and he can't. Jean's mind is glittering with triumph and fulfilment. He's hypnotised by the pure sensuality that shines in her pale skin, and even as he speaks, his gaze is on her breasts as she leans forward slightly, earnestly, as if she is hearing every word. She is feeling her nipples slide against the silk that was once cool. Her heartbeat accelerates, and she traps him against the wall with a flare of telekinesis as hot as the pulse she feels between her legs, a little flame like his fingers on her.

Jean and Remy. They lick and suck and kiss; they move that pure heat to collarbones, lips, elbows, fingertips, thighs, always circling the white-hot centre, like moths. His dick and her cunt. She licks his shaft with her lascivious tongue, arching her back like a cat. He finds her flashpoint in her wet rose. They both shiver with the heat. And me... I've been with her, telepathically, so much that I know what is her pleasure and what is mine, but then it all blurs as she mindlinks with him. We-  
I thrust into her, long and thin, she closes around me  
He is in me, further and further, sliding too easily! No!  
And back a little way, gotta move, she flexes around me  
Her thighs against mine and she lifts as I pull back  
Oh have to keep him in me! Move with him... move...  
There, there, all the way in, hold on, lift myself over her  
Further! Fill me! Harder!  
So good, soft, hard, wanted this  
Into her, feel dizzy, everything is in her  
"I'm so close"  
"Then cum for me baby,"  
"I want you to."  
Too much, everything is thrown out into her  
Leaping into her - Jean -  
Don't stop, pull him in, slide him in me forever  
Leaping and

The chair in front of the television. My dick is softening in my hand, and inside my sweatpants it's all a wet mess. I'm not him, not her, not in a fantasy. No, not a fantasy. Happy Anniversary, Mr Summers. Was that less fun than Jean's original plan? More?

I need a shower.  
They didn't use a condom.  
Oh God I need a shower.


End file.
